
Book cover for William Gibson's Idoru, from this gallery of Hungarian book covers.
Wytheville was a small town. I wasn’t a very happy kid, but there were aspects of the town that delighted me. It was rather short on books, though. There was a rotating wire rack of paperbacks at the Greyhound station on Main Street, another one at a soda fountain, and another one at a drugstore. That was all the book retail anywhere in my hometown.2. Apparently I'm not the only person who thinks the new Google Reader design is inexplicably horrendous. It's so bad in such obvious ways that I wonder if it's a preliminary step toward eliminating the service.
My parents were both from Wytheville. They eventually got together, though rather late for each of them. My father had been married previously, and my mother was probably regarded as a spinster. My mother’s family had been in Wytheville forever and was quite well-off and established, in a very small-town sort of way. My father’s father had moved down from Pennsylvania to start a lumber company. Once the railroads had gotten far enough back into the mountains, after the Civil War, there were a lot of fortunes being made extracting resources.
My mother had had some college, which was unusual for a young woman in that part of the world, but she hadn’t married, which was basically all a woman of her class was supposed to do. When she did eventually marry my father, he was the breadwinner. He had had some college, too, had studied engineering, which enabled him to wind up working postwar for a big construction company. My earliest memories are of moving from project to project, every year or so, as this company built Levittown-like suburbs in Tennessee and North Carolina.
Elements of the case . . . included her interest in Nato and a string of affairs with older men in positions of authority.Via.
As soon as he got home he sent me a draft of a short story he had written perhaps an hour beforehand: “This is my new genius short story.” I read it—it was about someone who discovers there are things that live in bars, things that look like drunks and prostitutes but are actually something else—and I saw, as I thought at the time, its flaws. I sat down to write him a critique, but it would have been so much work to critique it that instead I took his story and rewrote it. It was really quick and painless. I sent it back to him, saying, “I hope this won’t piss you off, but it was actually much easier for me to rewrite this than to do a critique.” The next thing I get back is a note—“I sold it!” He had sold it to this hardcover horror anthology. I was like, Oh, shit. Now my name is on this weird story.2. "How to Get iOS 5’s Biggest Features in Android Right Now ."
People kept doing that to me, and it’s really good that they did. I’d give various friends stuff to read, and they’d say, “What are you going to do with this?” And I’d say, “Nothing, it’s not nearly there yet.” Then they’d Xerox it and submit it on my behalf, to places I would have been terrified to submit to. It seemed unseemly to me to force this unfinished stuff on the world at large.
It's just confusing to have so many buttons doing so many things, and so many enemies that require so many different ways of dispatching. It's certainly great to have options and variety, but there's an information overload that can drown even the most focused of brains. This is an issue that doesn't just affect combat -- with so many gadgets, it's tough to keep track of which items perform which tasks, and when they're needed against certain obstacles. I was stuck at one point because I forgot that, among everything else he can do, Batman can slide to get under low barriers. It totally slipped my mind among all the things I needed to remember. This ties into the earlier criticism of Batman's grappling hook -- there are so many things to latch onto that the game itself gets confused.4. Relatedly, Topless Robot is giving away Arkham City figures.
Do you have a "daily carry?" If so, what are the things in it?3. My understanding is that Mattel didn't sell remotely close to the minimum number of subscriptions that they supposedly needed to support a DC Universe club, but have nevertheless announced that they "found a way to make the program work."
A very thin, almost weightless wallet, made of a material called Kuben (which is sort of like Dyneema but less fancy-looking) deployed in front pocket. (I had a walletectomy for a back issue; back-pocket carry is murder on the back, plus much less secure.) A steel-cable Muji keyring with keys and a SwissTech Utili-Key 6-in-1 tool (which looks like a key). A Montblanc roller-pen from before they become a luxury brand (I found one on eBay after reading Hiroshi Fujiwara's fascinating book Personal Effects).




Neuromancer is a computer adventure game created by Interplay Productions in 1988 and distributed by Mediagenic (a brand name that Activision was also known by). It was designed by Bruce Balfour, Michael Stackpole, Brian Fargo, and by Troy A. Miles, who was also responsible for the programming.You might be able to download it here.
It is based loosely on the William Gibson novel of the same name and takes place in both the "real world" and the extensively realized and detailed world of cyberspace. It is also noted for having a soundtrack based on the Devo song "Some Things Never Change". The gaming rights at the time were owned by Timothy Leary, who brought the project to Interplay to develop.
Just saw/experienced the Dyson Air Multiplier. FAR more amazing than the Dyson Air Blade.$300+ at Amazon. Here's an explanation for how they work - - they use something called "process entrainment."
With the Air Blade, you can imagine how it works. air Multiplier is Arthur C. Clarke's definition of magic. Seriously. 22nd Century tech.
And they look like very large, utterly minimalist pieces of extremely high-end Scandinavian jewellery. And the breeze feels like one.
Love it when a moment of feeling like an immigrant to a new century is so utterly positive.
RT @jrronimo: @GreatDismal Is it true that, after Neuromancer, you bought your first computer and were annoyed by it's fan noise? [Yes]3. A middle school in Nettleton, Mississippi is apparently segregating student body positions by race.

The room-phone began to ring. It was a collage, something else Inchmale dubbed steampunk. A massive, nautical-looking handset of rubber-coated bronze rested in a leather-padded cradle atop a cubical box of brass-cornered rosewood. Its ring was mechanical, and tiny, as though you were hearing an old-fashioned bicycle-bell, far off down a quiet street. She stared hard, willing it to silence.
"Intense hysteria," she said.
It continued to ring.
Three steps and her hand was on was it.
The handset was as absurdly heavy as ever.
"Coprophagia." Briskly, as if announcing a busy department.
"Hollis," he said, "hello."
She looked down at the handset, heavy as an old hammer and nearly as battered. Its thick cord, luxuriously cased in woven burgundy silk, resting against her bare forearm.
"Hollis?"
"Hello, Hubertus."
She pictured herself driving the handset through brittle antique rosewood, crushing the aged electro-mechanical cricket within. Too late now; it had already fallen quiet.
"I saw Reg," he said.
"I know."
"I told him to ask you to call."
"I didn't," she said.
"Good to hear your voice," he said.
"It's late."
"A good night's sleep, then," heartily. "I'll be by in the morning, for breakfast. We�re driving back tonight. Pamela and I."
"Where are you?"
"Manchester."
She saw herself taking an early cab to Paddington, the street in front of Cabinet utterly deserted. Catching the Heathrow Express. Flying somewhere. Another phone ringing, in another room. His voice.
"Manchester?"
"Norwegian black metal," he said, flatly. She imagined Scandinavian folk-jewelry, then self-corrected: the musical genre. "Reg said I might find it interesting."
Good for him, she thought. Inchmale's sub-clinical level of sadism sometimes found a deserving target.
"I was planning on sleeping in," she said, if only to be difficult. She knew now that it was going to be impossible to avoid him.
"Eleven then," he said. "Looking forward to it."
"Goodnight. Hubertus."
"Goodnight." He hung up.
She put the handset down. Careful of the hidden cricket. Not its fault.
Nor hers.
Nor even his, whatever he was.